Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Olivia woke to the sharp chime of her computer.

Her neck ached from sleeping on the desk, and her eyelids felt as heavy as if she hadn’t closed them in days.

The morning hadn’t fully broken yet, but daylight was beginning to creep across the glass floor, revealing scattered papers and empty coffee cups that bore witness to her long night.

She lifted her head slowly, rubbed her eyes, and let out a deep breath as she stared at the glowing screen before her.

The message that had ruined her night was still there — like an open wound refusing to heal.

Despite her exhaustion and the pounding in her temples, a spark of thought flickered in her mind.

She straightened up, put on her glasses, and started scribbling in her notebook in quick, messy handwriting:

> “If I can’t delete the email... maybe I can hide it.”

Her eyes widened as she whispered to herself, voice trembling:

> “The system allows update submissions... yes! If I resend a new version with the same subject and code, it’ll overwrite the old one in everyone’s inbox!”

It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was something — maybe even enough to save her.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the system settings and began typing a new message with the same subject line:

> “Confidential Reports – Last Week”

Then she attached a different file — a harmless one, containing only a single page that read:

> “Please disregard the previous email as it contained outdated data.

The correct version will be issued by management shortly.”

She stared at the draft, her pulse hammering.

> “If this works… no one will ever see the first one.

And if it doesn’t… I’m done.”

She hit “Send.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the screen until the words appeared: Message sent successfully.

The tension drained from her body.

It was nearly seven in the morning when she laid her head down on her arm, promising herself she’d rest just one minute before checking the system again.

But that minute dissolved into deep, heavy sleep.

The floor was silent, save for the low hum of the ventilation — the slow breathing of the building itself.

Morning light spilled through the glass walls, washing her cluttered desk in a cold, silvery glow.

Then, the door opened.

Ethan Cross stepped in with firm, unhurried strides, a cup of coffee in hand.

His face was unreadable — no anger, no softness — just that steady, calculating stillness that made people hold their breath around him.

He stopped when he saw the light still on in one of the offices.

And there she was.

Asleep at her desk.

Her hair was loose over scattered papers, glasses half slipping off her face.

Around her — chaos: empty mugs, crumpled notes, and a glowing monitor full of tangled lines and drafts.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his palm hit the desk — hard.

A cup rolled off and shattered against the floor.

Olivia jerked upright, eyes wide, voice trembling:

— “Mr. Cross! I—I wasn’t—”

He raised a hand, cutting her off coldly.

— “That’s your version of damage control? Sleeping on the job?”

She blinked, her voice small:

— “I was… working all night, sir. I think I found a way to fix it.”

He looked down at the mess on her desk without touching anything.

— “Really? Looks more like you started with chaos and ended with a nap.”

— “Please, sir… I sent an update email. Everyone will assume the old one was a mistake. No one will notice. I promise.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

— “A promise? I don’t work with promises, Miss Martin. I work with results.”

— “It’s Olivia,” she whispered.

He paused, then took a slow step closer.

— “Good. Still got the energy to correct names, but not your mistakes?”

Her cheeks burned, but she held his gaze.

— “Just give me an hour, sir. You’ll see — I fixed it.”

His voice dropped, cold as steel:

— “Mistakes don’t get forgiven. They don’t get explained away.

You’ve got one hour to prove what you just said is true... or don’t bother coming back.”

He grabbed his jacket from the chair and added, without looking at her:

— “And the next time you fall asleep here… make it your last time here.”

He walked out with steady, heavy steps.

Olivia stood frozen, her heart pounding, breath shallow — but her eyes were alive again.

She whispered to herself:

> “I’m not getting fired… not like this.”

---

Hours later, she stood outside his office door, hands trembling slightly.

The exhaustion hadn’t left her face, but there was a spark of hope in her eyes.

She did it. The old email was gone, replaced by the update.

Maybe she’d finally fixed something right.

She knocked gently.

His voice came from inside — low, calm, unreadable:

— “Come in.”

She stepped inside carefully.

He sat behind his desk, reviewing digital files, expression blank and sharp all at once.

She took a breath.

— “Sir, I think the issue’s been resolved.”

He looked up slowly, his gaze cold and steady.

A beat of silence.

— “Good.”

She waited — hoping for a word of acknowledgment, maybe the faintest hint of approval.

But there was nothing.

He closed the file and said flatly:

— “That’s good. Because you won’t be working with the system again.”

Her brows furrowed.

— “Sir… what do you mean?”

— “You’re terminated.”

The color drained from her face.

— “T-Terminated? But you said I had one hour to fix it — and I did!”

— “You did,” he said. “You fixed the problem. But trust doesn’t get fixed.

And when trust falls in this company… the person falls with it.”

Her voice broke slightly.

— “No one saw the first email, sir. No harm was done.”

He turned his head toward the window, his tone quiet and cutting:

— “Fixing a mistake doesn’t erase that it happened.”

Then his eyes met hers again — cold, final:

— “Turn in your badge before you leave.”

She stared at him, frozen.

There was no anger in his tone — only emptiness.

— “I was just trying to make it right,” she whispered.

He replied without looking up:

— “So was I.”

Her lips trembled, but she said nothing more.

She picked up her bag, turned toward the door, and paused just long enough to say, softly:

— “I hope you’re sure the problem’s really gone.”

No answer — only the faint tapping of keys.

She stepped out quietly.

The long hallway reflected her pale face in the glass — tired, worn, but not defeated.

At the corner, she stopped, pressed her hand against her forehead, and muttered under her breath:

> “You were waiting for him to give you another chance… stupid.”

She closed her eyes, drew in a trembling breath, then straightened her back.

Without looking back, she walked toward the elevator — leaving behind the office, the mistake, and whatever was left of her hope.